


A piece of you and me

by ToxicAvenger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Ficlet, M/M, Memories, Sad, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:38:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicAvenger/pseuds/ToxicAvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never understood Jim's fascination with wearing his clothes.</p><p>He does now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A piece of you and me

**Author's Note:**

> Only a small drabble of a ficlet that wouldn't leave me alone.

Sherlock never understood Jim’s fascination with wearing his clothes. He would walk into the living room to find Jim curled up in the chair, wearing his shirt, his dressing gown, or one of the T-shirts that he only ever used in bed.

 

“Wearing my clothes again?” he’d demand. “What’s next, holding hands and making gooey eyes at each other?”

 

Jim would acknowledge the jibe only by arching an eyebrow slightly, seemingly not amused at Sherlock’s failure to comprehend. He would sigh in exasperation, but willingly repeat his answer as many times as Sherlock would ask the question. The way one might explain something obvious to a child.

 

“I do it because it smells like you. Like us. It’s a piece of you and me.”

 

Sherlock would scoff at Jim’s supposition. “How can it smell like me when you wear it more often than I do?”

 

The only thing stopping him from challenging the rest of Jim's statement, was the hint of darkness that had crept into his eyes. Sherlock let it drop with an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

 

\-----------

 

Sherlock moves slowly into his bedroom, pulling Jim’s favourite T-shirt of his from the dresser. Too big for Jim, simple grey, made of soft cotton. Pressing it to his face, drawing a deep breath.

 

When he looks over at the bed, Jim is perched on the edge, looking at him, a smirk on his face.

 

“Does it smell like me then, Sherlock?” His voice is teasing, filled with wry amusement.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

“No, Jim. It smells like the inside of my dresser. It smells like washing powder. It smells like cotton.”

 

It can’t smell like Jim. Not when it’s been almost two years since he last wore it. The night before he pulled that trigger that changed everything.

 

Sherlock looks over at the bed again. It's looming, too big for the room all of a sudden. And it's empty. It always is these days.  

 

Except for the times when Sherlock wills forth the image of Jim.

 

The times when the hole that’s been punched in his chest aches too acutely and threatens to rip him apart. The times when the iron fist clenches too hard around his heart. The times when his breaths won’t reach his lungs, making him gasp for air. The times when the image of the British Army Browning L9A1 in his nightstand swims temptingly before his eyes.

 

Sherlock knows it can’t smell like him. It isn’t possible. And yet. Somehow. In contradiction with all scientific evidence on the pervasiveness of volatile chemical compounds, it does still smell like Jim.

 

Just a subtle hint of that rich cologne he used to wear and the musky odor from his skin. Just a slight trace of that scent that is Jim, that is the two of them.

 

That is comfortable nights in bed hugging each other close, Sherlock’s face buried in Jim’s hair. All of the lazy Saturday evenings on the sofa with Jim’s head resting in his shoulder as they sit together in silence. Never-ending soft kisses pressed on parted lips. A tongue running on an elongated neck. Brushes of lips against a heaving chest. Gentle strokes on a soft tummy. A warm mouth closing around a throbbing length. Soft moans in the dark.

 

It’s the scent of things that are gone. Things that will never be again. Memories that Sherlock tries desperately to cling onto, but that fade with every passing day. Sometimes he questions whether they were even real, or just a figment of his imagination.

 

That’s why he needs the smell of Jim.

 

To remind himself that he did not invent those deep brown eyes that used to stare right into his soul. That impatient glare thrown in his direction when he was paying more attention to a sample under the microscope than whatever Jim was telling him. That smirk when Jim stole his final chess piece after hours in tense concentration. That lost look when Jim woke from a nightmare, tears clinging to his eyelashes. That look of relief when confused eyes searched in the darkness and found his.

 

Sherlock inhales again, and wills himself to remember the smell of Jim. It's all he has left.

 

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

 

A single tear makes its way slowly down his cheek.

 

“I understand now, Jim. It smells like you, like us. Like a piece of you and me.”


End file.
